Izaya's finishes earlier than he expected. Shiku's only been gone a few hours. He will be pleased.

For a moment, Izaya just sits there. It's not often he can enjoy such freedom.

He lowers his feet with caution and stands. The wheelchair is in the corner, but he never uses it in the apartment. Shiku says not to feel ashamed if he does feel the need to use it, but still.

He goes over to the window. Walking doesn't cause him much pain now. Looks out onto the street. He hasn't been outside in two years.

Something dulled but insistent in the back of his brain pulls him away, into the bedroom. He takes his wallet out of the drawer. He has to brush the dust off it. To his surprise, it all seems intact, not one note touched. Not that Shiku needed his money.

For a moment he just stands there. He can feel his own heart. He holds his wallet like a child with a toy.

A voice comes out of the mess that is his head, and for once it's clear enough to make sense.

If you can walk as far as the station, you have to get out of here.

He shakes his head as if someone has actually spoken. Get out of here? Where would he go? More importantly, he hadn't set a foot outside the apartment since he had moved in. His legs couldn't take the strain. They had told him so. His legs would give out, and he would never make it to the station. The wheelchair, somehow, isn't an option.

Even as he's thinking this, the invisible leash pulls him out into the hall. His hands are shaking as he slides his arms through the coat – it's a little big on him now - as he pulls on his shoes. He catches his reflection in the hall mirror, faded bruising, but he doesn't look long. If he does, he knows he'll be lost.

You have to get out of here.

He hovers at the front door. Would he really dare? Shiku isn't due back for hours, isn't likely to call, but a second voice is screaming in his head that he'll collapse before he even makes it halfway, he'll come back in agony. That he should just sit down and take a minute, that he should put the wallet back and-

No.

Something pulls him on, on out the door to the corridor, down the elevator into the foyer. All the way out into the street. His legs feel fine. He's walking along the street like everybody else, like it's the most normal thing in the world. He puts his hood up.

He's terrified. He's convinced he'll run into Shiku, or one of Shiku's associates, at any moment, and what will he say? Just popping out for some air? If that happens he may as well throw himself in front of the nearest truck.

He shakes his head to clear it. He walks on. Avoids the eye of everyone he passes, convinced he must stand out, that he must give off a scent.

He's so focussed on this, on putting one leg in front of the other, that he doesn't notice he's at the station until his shoes touch the tiles. Had it always been this close?

He stops and stares. The crowds, the wall clock, the departures board, the ticket machines, the stores. His knees buckle. People edge around him politely when he doesn't move.

Then that helpful leash snaps him forward, the last few steps to the ticket machines. He buys a single ticket to Ikebukuro in cash. His hands fumble, and it takes him a while. He tends to be clumsy now, arms almost deformed looking inside his coat, courtesy of Shizuo, but he is used to it. He can't think about Shizuo now.

He has twenty minutes. He goes to the platform. It isn't busy, being a weekday afternoon. He doesn't have to sit next to anybody. He keeps the hood up anyway.

His heart jumps as the train begins to pull away, but not in a good way. He has no plan. Not much money; his bank card will be expired, the accounts likely drained. No power. No allies.

Ikebukuro.

He breathes in. It is his turf, not Shiku's. He knows Ikebukuro. He has an advantage there, and Shiku will tread carefully if, when, he comes. He avoids Ikebukuro like the plague. Izaya just needs to think.

The most obvious choice is his family. But he doesn't want to risk it, own turf or no. And he cannot let his family see the state he's in. His family will know right away that something very bad has happened to him, even before they see his arms or the rest of his bruises.

Shinra. He always goes to Shinra. Shinra will not turn him away, even now.

But, he has not seen Shinra in years. Shinra could have moved. He could be away. He could-

Stop, he orders. He's exhausted. He decides he will find a payphone as soon as he gets to Ikebukuro. He'll call Shinra. If Shinra is unavailable, he will call Simon, or Kadota, or even Masaomi or Mikado. He will deal with each problem as he comes to it, not before.

Thinking this, Izaya tucks himself into his hood and closes his eyes.

Ikebukuro scares him. It is far louder than Kanto's station, brighter, wider, more bustling, familiar, bright, overwhelming. He stumbles along with the crowd and lets the invisible leash pull him to the payphone.

He doesn't even have to think about the numbers before he punches them in, he's dialled Shinra so many times over the years. Good old Shinra. Who wouldn't, couldn't, let him down now.

The doctor answers after the first few rings.

"Hello?"

"Shinra." Izaya's head swims with his voice. It's like coming back from the dead. "It's Izaya."

There's a pause of disbelief on the other end. Then Shinra's laughing.

"Izaya! It's been so long, I should be mad at you. How are you?"

Izaya chokes up at his tone, at the warmth in it. "I'm- " he swallows. "I'm sorry, Shinra, I need your help."

"What?" He goes into doctor mode just like that. "Where are you?"

"I'm in Ikebukuro Central station."

"Oh, shit." There's a little pause. Izaya hears him scurrying around. "I'm going to – no, I'll send Celty, it'll be faster. Are you all right to ride with her? How badly hurt are you?"

"Shinra," he blurts. He is shaking. "I don't have any money."

Shinra barely skips a beat. "That's OK."

"No, I mean I – I don't know if I have any money at all."

"Izaya." Shinra's tone hasn't changed. "Let's just get you here, OK? I'm sending Celty right now. Go wait by the Salad Bar, where it's quiet."

Izaya slumps against the phonebox with relief. "Tell her she doesn't have to hurry," he mumbles. "I'm all right."

"Sure," he says, not sounding at all convinced. "Sit tight, OK? I'll see you soon."